


O Creator See Me Kneel

by lustfulpasiphae (miraphora)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blow Jobs, F/M, In the snow, Kneeling, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Stars, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 16:06:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5462708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraphora/pseuds/lustfulpasiphae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’s prowling, without knowing what she’s hunting. It’s dangerous. She *feels* dangerous. She feels uncontained, unpredictable, uncertain, loose around the edges like she might fly apart. </p><p>On the eve of closing the Breach, Mira roams the paths of Haven, searching for something--she's not sure what, but she'll know it when she finds it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	O Creator See Me Kneel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mirabai0821](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirabai0821/gifts).



> A PWP outtake staring Mira Trevelyan and Cullen Rutherford. Written (unbeknownst to me) as part of a smut fic exchange with Mirabai0821, whose own incredibly sexy offering, Control, is available on tumblr here: http://mirabai0821.tumblr.com/post/132580996123/control (starring her Evelyn B Trevelyan and Cullen Rutherford, from her Heraldry Series--which, if you're not already reading, you should go check out on ao3!!!)

She’s prowling, without knowing what she’s hunting. It’s dangerous. She *feels* dangerous. She feels uncontained, unpredictable, uncertain, loose around the edges like she might fly apart. 

Elyse had given her a look and an eyeroll, and exiled her jittering directionless energy from the tent. “Girl, you need to go walk this off. Get outta here before you drive me to drink. I gotta be fresh for the morning in case you bring some big nasty thing out of that hole in the sky.” Unspoken, soft in the silence between them: “ _And so do you, you big idiot._ ”

So she prowls, stalking the paths of Haven, avoiding the warm wells of torchlight where guards patrol and folks linger, glancing toward the music and nervous laughter spilling out of the Singing Maiden, but turning away. She’s not sure what she needs, but it isn’t that. 

Her head is tilted far back, her steps wandering idly, as she stares up at the sky, trying to trace constellations in the quadrant that isn’t lit up like Satinalia by the sickly glow of the Breach. The torches foul her night vision, but she can just make out the Four Sisters--holding hands and stretching out in a line as they form the crossguard of the Sword of Mercy. 

Her steps slow as she gets lost in searching the heavens--and it is a good thing, because it softens the blow when she collides with her own personal Sword of Mercy. Mira exclaims a startled apology, hands coming up to grasp at the poor sod she has walked right into like a night-blind idiot--

Steel vambraces and leather under her hands, soft red wool, warmth--she catalogs the sensations, realizing how cold her own hands are--and lowers her chin, directing her gaze ahead--

Into the warm, amber eyes of a fallen Templar. The directionless jittering energy inside of her snaps into focus and hones in like finding her center, like calling the target, like loosing an arrow into the stillness between one heartbeat and the next.

“Maker’s breath! I’m sorry, my lady.” He apologizes--of course he does, though she’s the one walking about with her head in the sky like a child.

Her hands are clasped around his forearms, her eyes lost in his, and she takes too long to respond, because words are meaningless now that she has found what she was looking for. The apology on his face fades into concern the longer she stares, and his hands turn to grasp her arms, and they are linked, thus.

“My...lady?”

There’s just enough torchlight where they stand for her to make out the faint flush creeping up his neck to the stubble that she can’t decide if he sports by design or absentmindedness. 

He clears his throat, glance flicking down quickly to their clasped arms and then back to her unwavering gaze. “My lady. Miraphora. Were you...ah...looking for me?”

A sudden smile spreads across her face, the corners of her eyes crinkling with private mirth. “Yes. Apparently I was.” 

The flush has made its way to his cheeks now, and his eyes are intent on hers. He opens his mouth to respond, but there is a raucous group of off-duty soldiers coming up the path behind Mira, and she sees the way his face gets cautious, feels the way his hands loosen on her arms, the way he begins to pull away. 

Tomorrow she will march at the head of an army of mages and faithful soldiers to the Breach, to seal it or to cast herself into its depths if only it will avert the grim future she has seen. But now, this moment is hers. This moment is full of certainty--and of desire.

She slides her hands free, keeps her smile at the mingled regret and relief in his face, and turns, taking him firmly by one hand, and tugs him after her, off of the path and into the shadows beside the looming stone chantry. There’s a moment of hesitation in his step, the beginning of a startled “My lady?” on his lips, but he follows.

She pulls him through the decorative archway of a stone buttress, leads him away from the noise and the light and the reality of the town and the tension peaking in every heart. Leads him into silence and shadow and the deep fir-shaded chill of a stolen moment.  

She turns as he is still moving forward with her momentum, catching up against his chest, her hands rising to grasp at the fur around his shoulders. He stumbles a step, the footing treacherous back here where the snow has had time to harden and crust, and wraps his arms around her, steadying them both, his first instinct to protect her. It makes her heart warm, like the fur under her chilled fingers warms her hands.

“I’m sorry. It’s very dark, I didn’t mean to--”

She tilts her head, angles her lips up, and leans in, closing the distance between them to stop his apologies with the warmth of her mouth. The way his lips purse on the vowel is perfect, and her lips close around his lower lip tenderly, with the slightest hint of gentle suction and a flick of her tongue tip. A startled gust of breath fans against her mouth, and his arms tighten around her, his hands flexing against the small of her back. A breathless “O, Maker,” escapes against her mouth, before he angles his head to counter her with an achingly tender assault of his own. 

Warmth sings through her, chasing the chill from her bones with a shudder all down the length of her back, and she makes a small, stifled sound of pleasure against his mouth. He gently pulls away, warm breath gusting against the broad arch of her cheekbone as he brushes his lips there, feeling her skin chill against him. 

“Maker, Mira. You’re like ice.” His voice is soft, her name coming easy to his lips, and that sends a thrill through her as well. He is ever one for propriety, for using her titles, and to have him step into this moment with her willingly means much. 

She makes a little sound as he pulls back, but he answers with a gentling, wordless reassurance, shrugging her hands free of his surcoat and working it off so that he can drape it around her shoulders with a dexterous swirl that sends the folds of soft-combed red wool, warm from his body, settling around her. The transition from cold air to soft warmth sends another shudder through her and she moans softly.

His hands tighten on her shoulders, stroking down her arms, and he tugs her close again, hands anchoring on her hips. His eyes are dark hollows here in the shadows, where even the starlight barely reaches, but his mouth is warm on hers, and tender. He cradles her close against him as he kisses her, warming her with his body, his thumbs stroking slow arcs against her sides.

She runs her fingers back into the hair at the nape of his neck, combing and ruffling it until the curls part and soften under her attentions. Her nails gently scratch and caress his skin. He makes a sound deep in his throat and pulls her hips against his, and she gives a soft hungry sound of her own at the feel of him beneath his leathers. She nips suddenly at his lower lip, and he jerks against her in reaction. 

“Maker’s breath,” he gasps, stifled against her mouth.

Her fingers knead at the muscles of his neck, and she gives a sucking kiss to the scarred corner of his mouth. “I want you.”

A shudder works through him, the hairs on his nape stirring beneath her stroking fingers. He rests his forehead against hers, breath a rapid gust, matching the thundering of his heart. “I am yours,” he says, helplessly, simply, offering without condition.

Need sends a heated curl through Mira’s belly, and she presses the length of her body up against him, angling for another deep, searching kiss, twining her tongue into his mouth to stroke against his. One of her hands strays down his chest, lower, pressing against the swell of his laces. A growl catches in his throat, and he presses against her, his tongue chasing after her retreat with a deep, sinuous assault. She surrenders that sortie, but her palm is warming against his leathers, and she gives a slow, firm squeeze, making it clear she has not ceded victory.

His pulse is skipping and thudding frantically against the fingertips she strokes along his throat.

She angles her lips, slides free with a quick lick to his scar—Andraste wept, she loves that tender furrow of flesh, the texture of it under her tongue, the way it tugs his mouth into a smirk. One of these days she will feel it pressed to her aching heat, but not tonight. She is a warrior preparing for the morning’s battle—she needs to conquer.

He regains his senses a bit as she uses her lithe strength and comparable height to maneuver him back toward the wall of the chantry, her fingers tugging at his laces. A large callused hand closes around her wrist, and she knows at least two ways to break his hold, but she stills, her lips pressed to his jaw, and waits.

“Mira. You can’t mean—here? My tent—“

She twists her head, tracing the tip of her tongue along his jaw, stubble scraping, his skin tasting of salt and sweat and something faintly herbal. She sucks on his earlobe, feeling him pulse against her close-pressed palm, and chuckles throatily. “Afraid I’ll let you freeze, Cullen?”

His hand tightens on her wrist, and she’s not sure if he means to pull her back or press her closer, but she has very dexterous fingers, all that lockpicking and bow-twanging and such, and she has finally pulled enough slack in his laces to writhe the tips of two fingers inside and he is hot, like a furnace, warm soft linen and hard flesh beneath, and he bites off a sharp oath.

“Maker’s fucking mercy, Mira. Your hands.”

She chuckles against his jaw, licks at the soft spot beneath his ear, and feels him shiver as the warmth of her mouth rapidly cools. “My mouth is much warmer.”

The wall is behind him, and the hand on her wrist has gone slack at the threat—the promise—in her voice. She twists her wrist gently, carefully, out of his grasp, and like a penitent before Andraste, falls to her knees before him.

“Maker’s breath,” he utters on a soft, stolen breath. “You’re going to catch your death of cold.”

She hums softly, half a bit of harmony, feeling that dangerous energy that had sent her out into the night creeping back, zipping along her spine like lightning. “I might. My knees are too old for this.” She laughs at his choked sound of dismay, her hands gripping around the outsides of his thighs, and leans in close, nuzzling her cheek against him, eyes closed to catlike slits of pleasure.

“Mira…”

Her fingers return to his laces, tugging and loosening, working the body-warmed leather open just enough to free him. A soft, purring little moan curls in her throat, and she sways forward, dragging her lips up along the heated linen of his smalls, and she closes her teeth in a gentle, teasing bite around his shaft, the edge of pain blunted by fabric.

He goes very still, his breath caught in his throat, before it escapes in a slow hiss. She closes her lips in a heated kiss against the swelling crest of him, still trapped beneath his smalls, and tilts her eyes up toward his face, wishing she could see his expression. It’s even darker here in the shadow of the building, pressed into the hollow of a false arch, and all she has to go on is the sound of his voice and the feel of his flesh beneath her hands.

“Cullen.”

He shudders from the warmth of her breath against him. She feels more than sees his movement as his hands rise to thread back into her hair, one thumb stroking her temple. “I wish I could see your face.”

She laughs wickedly to mask the tender shoot of heat his gentle tone of yearning sends through her heart. “You like the thought of my lips wrapped around your cock, Commander?”

His hands still in her hair, and he shifts under her hands, and she knows he’s going to try to make this tender, but she has this need and hunger, and there is time. There will be time, later. She swears it to herself, in the darkness, hiding from the next day’s dawning. There will be time. Before he can speak, she gives him a sucking kiss through his linen and tugs him free with cool fingers that make him hiss in reaction, a teasing, taunting Chant on her sinful lips.

“O Creator, see me kneel.”

Her mouth closes around the weeping head of his cock, and she strokes down, taking him into her heat in one, slow, agonizing thrust. His thighs go rigid under her hands, and her name escapes his lips in a strangled cry. Maker, she loves the sounds he makes. She makes it her target, wringing these soft and needing sounds from his throat.

His hands tighten in her hair, relax when he realizes what he’s doing, when she strokes up to his tip and he can nearly think again, before tightening when she plunges back down with a twist of her neck and a slick, twining stroke of her tongue. His cock curves gently, and she imagines for a moment, being in a warm bedroom, a fire roaring and sending spangled light flickering across both their bodies—imagines being spread out before him, pulled to the edge of the bed by his warm callused hands—imagines feeling his cock plunging deep into her wet cunt. A moan trickles from her throat, thrumming around the heat and heft of him in her mouth, and he jerks his hips at the sensation. The sound he makes is a stifled grunt, and she thinks he must be biting his lip.

The tip of him presses to the back of her throat, and she moans again, wanting—

Her fingers tighten and tense against his thighs, holding him still, and she pulls back up his shaft, then strokes back down, pressing him deep inside her mouth, slow, steady, jaw aching and open, feeling pressure build, relaxing—a gushing pulse of salty bitter precum fills her mouth as he forgets himself and cries out aloud, overtaken by the clutching pressure of her throat around the swollen head of his cock.

“Mira!”

She pulls back in a slow drag, sucks tenderly at his tip, tasting him, licking and tracing the tip of her tongue around his crest, feeling him twitch and pulse—so close, Maker, she wishes they were somewhere warm and naked so she could touch him all over.

He gives a soft whine at the cold, and that sends a clenching spasm of need right through her cunt, her nipples tightening. Cullen Rutherford, Commander of the Inquisition, whining under the untender mercies of her wicked mouth. Andraste fucking wept, she needed this like fire, like water, she needs this for the rest of her life.

She closes her teeth tenderly around his shaft, just below his crown, teasing with the pressure. A soft prayer, half her name and half a plea to the Maker, wings from his lips toward the icy sky. She hums a throaty laugh and plunges back down without warning, her lips a tight, slick seal around his shaft, her tongue flat against the throbbing vein on the underside, until her nose presses to his groin, and swallows around the head of his cock again.

His hips buck, hands tightening in her hair, dragging her closer, as he finally forgets himself, and she sets a plunging reckless rhythm, working up and down his length, her mouth slick and hot, her moans thrumming through him.

She feels the tension build in his thighs as he gets there, feels the tug at her hair as he tries to push her away, the choked cry tearing from his throat as his balls tighten and he finds his release. She pushes deeper, nails digging into his leathers, her own choked sound escaping at the feel of his hot, salty seed filling her mouth in rapid pulses.

“Mira!”

She holds steady, until he settles, then pulls back with a slow, tender glide of her lips around his sensitive flesh. She swallows the last bitter dregs of him, a shudder working through her, heat pooling in her belly. Her nipples are tight with cold and arousal, and she can’t feel her knees, but the taste of him is on her lips, her tongue, and his fingers are gently, apologetically stroking her hair. She savors the moment, rolls it around on her tongue, tasting the sea, iron, musk, feeling the thick heat of satisfaction curling around her heart.

She leans in, presses a soft little kiss to his softening cock, tender and unselfconscious as she tucks him back into his smalls, pulling his leathers back, tightening his laces enough for decency. She huffs a deep, cold-lunged breath of the night air, her head tilted back, nuzzling into his hand as it strokes down to her cheek. His sounds have quieted, and she mourns their loss. She braces her hands on her haunches, wonders if she’ll be able to stand.

His hands trail to her shoulders. “Mira.” There’s something tight in his voice—she wonders if he’s blushing.

She tilts her head back, smiling at him, wishing he could see it. “I think I might need help—“

His dark shadow swoops in close before she can finish, and he helps her up, holds her against him tightly, lowering his head to kiss her hard before she can settle herself. A dark growl thrums low in his throat, and his tongue plunges into her mouth. Her body clenches in surprise and desire, her eyes going wide. Maker, most men wouldn’t want—

He breaks away, panting, nuzzling a heated cheek against hers—definitely blushing now. “Maker, I’m sorry. I just—you taste—your mouth—“ He clears his throat, a little strangled. “You are so beautiful. Thank you.”

She laughs softly, wonderingly, lacing her fingers behind his neck. “Cullen. You would have been wasted on the Chantry.”

He huffs softly, hands tenderly stroking her face, her neck, her shoulders. “I barely convinced the Order to take me, you know. I can’t imagine what the Chantry would have done with me.”

“I can think of a few things.” She turns her face into his hand, so he can feel her smile.

“Glutton,” he murmurs softly, inclining his head for another kiss.

She shivers against his mouth, and this time it’s not only from pleasure. He pulls her closer again, his hands rubbing briskly up and down her arms.

“Forgive me. You—“ He hesitates, pressing his forehead to hers. “You have given me pleasure and taken none for yourself. Will you come with me to my tent?”

She thinks about it—about waking warm beside him, what he must look like when he sleeps, about letting him touch her and having to bite back her own sounds of pleasure, the tents of his officers looming close on all sides. Thinks about having to tear herself from his side when dawn breaks, to march on the Breach, he at the head of their vanguard, she with the mages.

There’s time. She swears it to herself, pulling away from him. His hands have a tremor in them like he has an impulse to seize her, to pull her back to him, and he fights it off.

“We should both sleep,” she murmurs, making it both apologetic and wry.

She hears the shift of his armor, his leathers creaking in the cold as he straightens, as his warm hands leave her. “You’re right, of course. Forgive me.”

She reaches out a hand, strokes her thumb across his lips, lingering on his scar. “I didn’t mean—“

He takes her hand, kisses her fingers. “I know. Will you let me escort you to your tent?”

She takes it as an invitation, pressing in close to him for warmth. “I might freeze otherwise, serrah.”

He chuckles softly. “We can’t have that.”

She uses her powders when they leave the shadows of the chantry, and he has to stifle a laugh not to give them away. Her lips curve in a wicked smirk, and she tugs him after her, skirting a pair of guards, moving from shadow to shadow until the illusion clears and leaves them stranded in a circle of torchlight, his arm wrapped around her hips, his amber eyes fixed wonderingly on her face. She smiles, aware that they could be seen, wonders for a moment if he cares—he pulls her close and kisses her again, tongue tracing her lips. His hands are gentle when he sets her away from him. She tries to remove his surcoat, but he tugs it tighter around her—his knuckles tightening for a moment, fisted in the fabric, as he thinks about pulling her against him again. But he controls the urge, a rueful twist to his lips.

“Sleep well, my lady.”

“And you, Commander.”

Elyse is still awake when she enters the tent, a smirk on her lips. “Uh huh.”

Mira blushes, knowing her lips must be swollen and red from stubble and…her other activities. She can still taste Cullen, heady and bitter and thick. And his damned surcoat. She’ll have to find a way to return it in the morning.

She gets ready to sleep, folding the coat carefully on top of her pack. “Remind me—“

Elyse rolls her eyes. “Go to sleep, you idiot. I’ll make sure it gets back to him.”

Mira sinks down onto her bedroll with a groan. “Also remind me—“

“That you’re getting too old for sinning in the snow like you did when you were twenty? Girl. Done deal.” Elyse’s smirk grows into cat and canary territory as her friend settles her pillow over her head with a muttered oath. “Sleep.”

In the morning, the Commander of the Inquisition finds a package on the chest in his tent—and feels a stab of surprise that he didn’t wake at its delivery. A hastily scribbled note is tucked into a fold—a scrawling “There’s time –M”, and underneath a very loopy “Everything you’ve heard about Rivaini witches is true. Just remember that.”

“Maker’s breath.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on twitter or tumblr @lustfulpasiphae


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